


With Heart in Hand

by Project0506



Series: Rare's the Same As Half-Baked [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Family, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24303697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Obi-Wan makes a sudden discovery about his feelings for Master Plo, months after he figured out he loved him.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Plo Koon
Series: Rare's the Same As Half-Baked [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742290
Comments: 33
Kudos: 128





	With Heart in Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse. I'm also not sorry. T'is what t'is. Yep. This series is called 'Half-Baked' for a reason folks.
> 
> AKA Obi-Wan needs a soft karking romance and you know who the softest karking boi is? Guess.

Obi-Wan doesn’t think there’s any one specific moment where he realized he loved Master Plo.

He smiles as the apartment vibrates with Anakin’s excitement. Out in the living area, rambunctious feet dart this way and that, tidying and straightening the few comfort things they have scattered around, checking that dishes are washed and dried and put away. Anakin translates his happiness to work, and maybe tidy doesn’t mean the same to a ten year old boy as it would to Obi-Wan, but their rooms hum with content and Obi-Wan would be a much poorer man to find fault with it.

“Is it Taungsday already?” he calls to his Padawan’s immediate and vocal rebuke. Of _course_ it’s Taungsday, Master Obi-Wan, stop being mean!

Obi-Wan laughs, shuffles into the soft slippers he’d kept for years before Master Plo talked into actually enjoying them, and tugs on the robes laid out on his bedside table. “Because I could have sworn it was only Centaxday, and I had this lovely treatise on Onderonian cave mold I thought we could enjoy this afternoon…”

Anakin meets him at his bedroom door, puff-cheeked and petulant. “You’re _not_ as funny as you think you are,” he grumbles. Obi-Wan ruffles his hair and grins at the annoyed way his Padawan bats his hands off and tries to flatten it. It’s a very familiar Padawan cut, and Obi-Wan lived with the same for a dozen years. There’s no possible way to make it any less unflattering. “I’m hilarious,” he corrects. “Ask Master Plo.”

Obi-Wan suspects Anakin’s picked that eye roll up from Vos. It certainly wasn’t Obi-Wan himself, and clearly not Master Plo. He clicks his tongue and taps Anakin directly between his eyes. “Now when did we start sassing back to our masters?”

For a second Obi-Wan trips cold, and the apology is on the tip of his tongue. He’d spent the past year and a half telling Anakin it was okay to speak his mind, that Obi-Wan was his master but not his owner. Blessedly, the message’s stuck: where once Anakin would have apologized and tucked into himself, now he rolls his eyes again. “When our masters started acting like _nine year olds_ ,” he sniffs. A truly vile insult, from someone already ten.

Obi-Wan sweeps him off his feet and up under his arms. His fingers find the soft sides that make Anakin shriek with laughter and his control slips. Joy bursts bright in the Force, even as he complains and wriggles and protests and insults.

They don’t have neighbors anymore, not on either side and not below them either. Before Master Plo, that had bothered Obi-Wan, and he’d wondered about training Anakin to keep himself more contained. Now?

A delicate trail of amusement filters down from the apartment above. Near it there’s a pair of little gleeful supernovas pulsing in response, one a bit more and one _quite_ a bit less controlled than Anakin’s is.

“Snips!” Anakin cheers. “And Lala too!”

“Master Plo and Ahsoka and Aayla,” Obi-Wan agrees, thrilled. It’s so hard for Anakin to learn to listen to the Force in the quiet moments sometimes, but the incentive to sense Master Plo and Anakin’s friends had gone a long ways towards making him put in the effort. There’s a sly twist of a fourth person, but Anakin could be forgiven for not noticing him; Obi-Wan only does through almost two decades of practice. “Are they almost ready to come down?”

His nose and brow both crinkle in concentration. It’s a good thing he’s still in Obi-Wan’s arms and the man doesn’t have to resist the urge to subtly cuddle him. He’s still so _adorable_ , even if that’s apparently no longer an acceptable description for someone now ten.

“Ten more minutes. Lala’s master’s being a koochoo again and she’s making sure he knows the rules before we go.”

“ _Language_ Anakin.” Obi-Wan jiggles him and Anakin lets his teeth rattle dramatically.

“Ow ow ow Master you’re going to void my warranty!”

Okay, maybe Anakin _did_ learn his eye roll from Obi-Wan.

“But if it makes you happy: Lala’s master is being a dumbass-”

“ _Anakin_!”

The menace cackles, wriggles out of Obi-Wan’s hold slick as a slime mold and takes off towards the kitchen. “No rough housing near the dishes Master!” he trills with the malicious glee of a child who’s finally able to use the rules against an adult.

There’s a yellow-green splotchy stain on floor, right in front of the stove. It’s proven particularly resistant to cleaners. Obi-Wan’s almost got to the point where he can glimpse it out of the corner of his eye and not sour in old, tired humiliation.

The white stone floors of the Jedi temple have played host to generations of Jedi, but they proved weak against the force of one man sitting for three hours sobbing in a puddle of mug shards and spilled tea.

Anakin knocks his hand against Obi-Wan’s and curls his fingers in Obi-Wan’s sleeve. He’s a wonderful child, an _amazing_ child compared to Obi-Wan at his age. Emotional, yes, but genuine and sympathetic and so very caring.

“We could put a rug over it,” he offers again, and again Obi-Wan turns him down.

“It’s a good lesson for you,” he says instead, and drops his free hand on Anakin’s soft hair. “That no one is perfect and even a master can be a bit silly, sometimes.”

“Master Plo says being tired and overwhelmed isn’t your fault, and it’s only dumb if you keep doing it and don’t accept help.”

Of course they would listen to Master Plo’s advice. His wisdom far outstrips Obi-Wan’s, and his patience the same.

It was Master Plo, after all, who had found Obi-Wan sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by the shards of an unimportant mug and dripping with regular boxed tea, crying as though his heart would break. It was Master Plo who had hustled Anakin away, drying his sympathetic tears and setting him to entertaining little Ahsoka. It was Master Plo who had bundled Obi-Wan up into his bed under both his blankets and ones he didn’t recognize, who let him keep sobbing as long as he liked even though he wasn’t angry or sad. It was Master Plo who brought Obi-Wan dinner and water, after he’d cried himself tired like a babe and napped for hours like a layabout.

It was Master Plo who had told Obi-Wan it was perfectly understandable to be exhausted, given the circumstances. It was Master Plo who made sure Obi-Wan always knew he could ask for help, and who sometimes showed up to offer it anyway before Obi-Wan could decide not to ask.

“I said silly,” Obi-Wan sighs around the warming in his stomach.

Anakin grins up at him. “And _I_ said _dumb_.”

His Padawan has a sixth sense for tackles now, and Obi-Wan lets him think he’s escaped for long enough that there is a chime at the door.

“They’re here they’re here bye Master Obi-Wan we’re staying at Lala’s tonight probably!”

“Invite them _in_ Anakin!” Obi-Wan scolds as he races off. “Don’t just bowl them over in the hallway!” Anakin makes a gut-deep sound of disgust and stomps like he’s twice his weight to the door.

“Hello And Welcome To Our Home,” he growls. “Please Come Inside. We Will Offer You Hospitality _b_ _ut_ _d_ _o_ _n’t_ _feel_ _like_ _you gotta accept_.”

“I would like to accept,” Aayla intones, and there’s a glint of mischief in her eye that she’s finally starting to pick up from her master. Quinlan had been distraught at how _responsible_ she was turning out. Ahsoka wriggles down from Master Plo’s hold, lands butt-first on the floor and totters and right up into a bear-hug on Anakin’s back. “I have heard your household has very good tea,” Aayla finishes.

“We’re _not staying for tea_!” Anakin squawks, aghast and Aayla delivers him the most superior look she can manage.

Obi-Wan appreciates that friendship more than he can say. Anakin took a while to get used to her forthrightness, and she took longer to believe that he wasn’t waiting to tease her still not-very-sophisticated Basic. They’d gotten past that in time, and now Anakin finally has someone to squabble like siblings with.

Ahsoka has great role models, and at only five standard she’s already starting to grip the intricacies of sarcasm. Master Plo will have his hands full once she’s officially Padawan-age, no doubt.

“Perhaps,” Master Plo says with his usual affability, “we could come to a compromise? Accept hospitality young Ani has so kindly offered, without delaying our visit to the aquarium too much longer?”

Master Plo has Aayla under one arm, and Anakin under another, and Ahsoka climbs across them all with impunity. He holds Anakin as close as either of the girls, as though Anakin was just another child of the Jedi, as if Anakin doesn’t have to prove he has just as much right to be as cherished and valued as any other. Master Plo smiles, gentle and caring and so, so beautifully kind, over their heads. A smile just for Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan doesn’t think there was a particular moment where he’d fallen in love with Master Plo. But this is precisely the moment where he realizes he is also, stunningly, extremely attracted to him.

He’s fortunate that he’s grown a beard. He knows the flush down his neck would have been _horrendous_.

“I do have cookies, if one might be interested,” Obi-Wan chokes in agreement, in desperate distraction.

Each of the ‘ones’ in question very much is. Little adorable bottomless locusts.

* * *

On Taungsdays, Master Plo takes Anakin out.

The wheres vary among their little group. All three children like to run, to touch things and learn things. They all love animals, and Ahsoka’s finally getting to the point where she remembers not to snatch the small ones and try to cram them in her mouth. Aayla mostly goes for things you can climb on or bounce off or swing from, and apparently Anakin ‘lets her win’ most of the little competitions that tend to crop up from them. He’s gotten more complimentary about her skills as time has gone on. He doesn’t _need_ to be the best at everything as much anymore and one more fear in Obi-Wan’s chest unwinds.

Water’s always a sure bet with Anakin; for three straight turns he’s chosen to go to the aquarium and Obi-Wan is achingly grateful that none of the others seem inclined to get bored or lose their patience with him for being repetitive. Still, Obi-Wan makes a note to see if Anakin might be interested in the Children’s Science Museum next time: there’s a huge interactive exhibit on hydroelectric dams he think might attract.

Anakin can only ever be persuaded to share Master Plo’s attention with Ahsoka and Aayla, though. He never invites anyone from his classes, goes quiet when Obi-Wan tries to ask if he would like to. Master Plo had counseled patience. He _has_ friends now, there isn’t a reason to push him to make more if he isn’t comfortable.

On Taungsdays, Master Plo takes Anakin out to the zoo or an animal rescue or the aquarium or a trampoline park. He’ll take one hand and Aayla will take the other, and Ahsoka will ride piggy-back and pretend to yell directions. They may only be gone a few hours, and Anakin and one or both of the others might be slipped back in drowsy and happy and delivered straight to bed, or they might sleep in puddles on Master Plo’s or Vos’ sitting room floor and some combination of them may be returned Zhellday morning in time for breakfast. The only constant is Obi-Wan is very specifically not invited.

It’s incredible.

* * *

Obi-Wan doesn’t have a plan for today. Some Taungsdays are just like that.

He’s finished his most recent of Quinlan’s book recommendations: a silly little romance novel the likes of which he thought he’d put behind him years ago, but that he found still held their amusing appeal. It’s dreadfully raunchy, as expected from Vos, but also rather surprisingly sweet. He’d found himself cheering for the neighbors despite himself, regardless of how trite the boys-next-door plot made itself.

Sometimes, though more when this first began, he’ll sleep, the short hours during the rest of the week catching up with him. He has so much to do, as a new knight. This is the time when he is to prove himself independent, capable of the missions he is given. His missions by necessity keep him close at hand, close to his Padawan, but are no less grueling for it. And Obi-Wan _is_ a master to a Padawan; regardless of his need to establish himself as a knight, Anakin and his needs and his development must be Obi-Wan’s first priority. But it leaves him drained and lethargic and some days it feels like Taungsday afternoons and Master Plo’s visit is the only bright point on the horizon. Felt. He’s had fewer of those days recently, where only the promise of being able to get back into bed on Taungsday could prompt him out of bed at any other time. These days his Taungsdays are more about what he can do, instead of what he doesn’t have to.

Obi-Wan wonders if he should cook.

He doesn’t have plans for a meal with Quinlan, or with or Bant or Garen or Reeft. He checks his cupboards and they’re not _bare_ , but he’d need to grab a few essentials if he’s going to do anything proper. Obi-Wan checks the chrono. He _could_ make it down to a market and back, whip some things up for a dinner. It would eat up much of the afternoon, done right.

Vos hoards these afternoons just as much as Obi-Wan does and when they eat together they usually take the opportunity to make it a big production. Vos, Obi-Wan thinks, goes out of his way to find new meats and ways to grill. It’s only fair; Obi-Wan carefully researches his baking too. No longer just satisfied with only what is necessary to provide a growing boy with nutrients, but playful little techniques of crafting sugars and grains into something that makes him smile. He’ll save himself some, box some up for Master Plo if he’s able to eat them, save most for the children descend on like a prophesied plague, but the rest would go to their meals.

Bant and Garen are both plebeians. They’ll shovel anything down their throats and compliment it equally. Obi-Wan and Quinlan have stopped using them to judge. Reeft, whenever he is on-planet, is courted and bribed mercilessly to throw his opinion behind one dish or another.

Obi-Wan checks the chiller. He _could_ try to get ahead. Reeft is addicted to fruits of all types, and Obi-Wan thinks he might have just about everything he’d need for that one recipe he’s been eyeing: a citrus-berry-coconut petit four. But it wouldn’t be quite the same, without competing against Vos.

Quinlan has declared he’ll need all afternoon to prepare himself for the horrors of hosting _all of their assorted small ears_ tonight. That everyone else’s apartments would be _empty and quiet tonight_. He’d stared particularly hard at Obi-Wan at that point and Obi-Wan had taken vague offense. Anakin was a sweet boy, and quite well-behaved, considering he really only had Obi-Wan as a role model for quite some time. The _nerve_ of that man, insinuating… insinu…

Obi-Wan flushes again in sudden realization. Did he mean… Oh. Oh _Force_. _What_ has Vos been sensing from him? And for how long? Hindsight chimes in in perfect clarity to point out that the past few weeks Vos has been pointedly, unseasonably layered in Obi-Wan’s apartment. He’d worn two set of gloves, and had stared right at Obi-Wan when _that_ had been revealed.

But of course he wouldn’t just _say so_ _mething_ , the melodramatic cuss.

Obi-Wan smacks his cheeks sharply, reinforces his shields and _Force_ he’s been slipping! _What has Quinlan been sensing?!_ He hustles about the apartment for his own distraction.

He’d clean, that was always a good way to busy his hands and occupy his mind. Perhaps just a little, that wouldn’t distress the others, right?

At first, when Master Plo had started this, Obi-Wan would use the time to clean.

Anakin is incredibly mature, but he’s still a ten year old boy and rambunctious in the way they all are whether raised in the temple or not. And ten year old boys generate dirt and grime in a way science has never managed to explain. While Obi-Wan wouldn’t consider himself fussy, exactly, he _has_ over the years gotten used to a very particular process when cleaning and it doesn’t lend itself well to including an additional person.

So for the first few weeks Obi-Wan cleaned. The floors got properly mopped, the kitchen bleached repeatedly in vain. The couch cushion covers got washed, with the curtains and all the bedspreads. Obi-Wan even managed to get a touch of paint sprucing up some areas which had started trending towards grimy. Victims of a household that included a young child and a lackadaisical master.

The week after he painted Master Plo came by early, Aayla and Ahsoka in tow.

“We’re going to help Master Obi-Wan before we go,” he’d said amiably, “so we can enjoy ourselves without worrying that he is back at home working.”

Anakin had been _horrified_ that he could be leaving work for Obi-Wan to do alone while he has fun, and the girls both get pulled into the wake of his determination. Obi-Wan acquiesced to Master Plo’s cunning; now Anakin and Obi-Wan spend Taungsday morning tidying, and when they go out Obi-Wan no longer spends time cleaning.

Much.

Some dusting would barely be noticed, probably.

Right.

Obi-Wan is the only one in his apartment, so there isn’t anyone to see him stop in the middle of the living room, hear him clear his throat rapidly or shake his head sharply. Dusting. Then he’ll see if someone’s in the salles up for a spar.

* * *

Vos finds him in the salles. Because of course he does.

“Are you quite through?”

Vos hoots and cackles like some sort of hooligan, slaps his knee in exaggerated hilarity. He howls with laughter directly into Obi-Wan’s ear, leans directly against Obi-Wan’s side. He’d decided Obi-Wan was an acceptable prop, _while he_ _is currently_ _mocking Obi-Wan_.

The training rooms are fairly sparsely populated at this time of the afternoon, and what population there is mostly tries to keep to themselves. There’s a circle of initiates in one corner listening intently to a lecture. In one of the first few salles, a master Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize goes through Soresu forms at quarter speed, focusing on holding precision in a way that tells Obi-Wan she’s recovering from serious injury. A few Knights spar lightly, more for company than competition.

Vos rolls his entire self to drip across Obi-Wan’s shoulders.

It is perfectly Jedi-like to step aside and let Vos tumble to the ground. Maybe kick at him as he goes. Obi-Wan is annoyed Vos doesn’t even have the decency to be uncoordinated. No, he flutters, all long limbs and dark haired and attractive in the way he’s well aware of and has weaponized. There are more than one sets of eyes drawn to him as he goes, and his accidental sprawl and thoughtless stretch is neither of those things.

Obi-Wan’s eyes are regrettably among them, all the worse that Obi-Wan knows Quinlan does it on purpose. Quinlan is very aware it works even on the friends in his circle. Obi-Wan is _twenty five_ , and he’s also the full-time guardian of a very aware ten year old so some things have had to be sacrificed this past year and some. And Quinlan Vos, for all he is obnoxious, is very beautiful. He’d have been a perfectly reasonable subject of amorous feelings, given their ranks and age and history.

If only he wasn’t _quite_ so obnoxious, Obi-Wan thinks. It’s just that edge of too much to get past, no matter how pretty he is.

“Aw, Obi,” he coos, writhing smugly at the stray thought caught. Suddenly he isn’t even that pretty.

Obi-Wan kicks at him. Vos snaps a hand out around Obi-Wan’s ankle and tugs sharply.

It’s been a few years, but Obi-Wan hasn’t forgotten how to tussle with Vos. Quinlan’s heavier but Obi-Wan is pointier, and when he goes down it’s elbow-first directly onto Quinlan’s sternum. Vos grunts a curse and the fight is on.

Obi-Wan leaps into an Ataru flip and bounces back twice on the balls of his feet, dodging a kick each time. Vos rolls on his shoulders and spins to his feet, launching himself after Obi-Wan in the same motion.

“You two brats!” Master Drallig is still somehow alive against all odds and the ravages of time, and exactly as old and withered as when Obi-Wan first saw him at four Galactic Standard years old. His voice hasn’t suffered any over the years either. When he bellows across the training rooms everyone hears it. “Be educational!” Unchanging as a pillar in the temple proper, even _he_ _’d_ given up trying to curb Vos or Obi-Wan, or Galen when he’s on-planet, more a decade ago; no Master Drallig knows a battle he can’t win and fights smarter. Now he just exploits them shamelessly, in whatever configuration they tumble into his domain. “The intermediate class is doing hold breaks and saber retrievals. All of you pay attention, you’ll learn something.”

Well, if they were going to have an audience anyway.

Vos’ grapples are heavier, and Obi-Wan lets him hold for longer, so the initiates can get a look at how his hands are positioned and how Obi-Wan twists to account for it. Obi-Wan tumbles for longer, darts further and Quinlan pursues him more slowly so they can see how an attacker would approach.

Preteens crowd out the audience Vos would be interested in impressing, so his techniques switch from lithe and showy to sharp and precise, and Obi-Wan adjusts to match. There’s always been that edge of vicious in Vos’ strikes, even when he spars with friends. He goes after joints and soft tissue with crushing, closed-fist deliberateness. When Obi-Wan catches him in a hold, he’s learned to make sure it’s solid: a bare inch of leverage and Vos will deliver his knuckles directly to Obi-Wan’s armpits or inner thigh and feel no remorse whatsoever at the result.

Quinlan’s punch aims high up on his sternum, and Obi-Wan has no qualms about burying fingers in thick, black locks and yanking to keep him just far off enough target to miss the neck. They also, both of them, play _dirty_ for no other reason than to make the other grin, to hear the initiates titter and Master Drallig harrumph like he’s swallowed a bogfrog.

“You will of course conduct yourselves with _some_ dignity,” he lectures when Vos feints snapping a knee right at Obi-Wan’s groin, the Kiffar giggling when the redhead retreats with alacrity.

Obi-Wan retaliates with cupped hands smacked over both of Quinlan’s ears.

Vos’s resulting explosion of language is very educational indeed.

It, understandably, gets them summarily dismissed to the very back salle in the training hall.

“So tell Auntie Quin everything,” Quinlan simpers. “But make things up for the boring parts, let me feel the _drama_!”

The hilt of Obi-Wan’s lightsaber rolls from solid grip, across the back of his hand and into his grip again, the blade a slashed blue crescent through the air. Blue meets green in a hum of energy. Vos puts his back behind his block. Obi-Wan sidesteps, swings a back slash to give himself space.

“You knew before I did,” he grumbles and tries not to sound particularly petulant. He fails.

Vos’s hissed laughter is just soft enough that Obi-Wan can pretend it’s nothing but the electric thrum of his saber. He fails there too.

“Months!” Quinlan crows. He brings his blade down overhead and snaps a kick to try to shake the block before it forms. Obi-Wan flows from Soresu back to his old friend Ataru, splits the difference and attacks right at his unprotected ribs. Vos blocks. “Months of the _pining_ and the strawberry candy cloud thoughts and the pre-Ruusan poetry-style imprints on _everything_! Your apartment _gave me hives_!”

“Normal emotions give you hives Vos. You have a documented allergy to anything that doesn’t come prefaced with a preventative dose of ‘snide’.”

“Have you flashed some ankle yet? _Gasp_ Obi, you have the apartment to yourself tonight. Are you gonna _show off your forearms_? You _hussy_!”

He nearly loses hair to Obi-Wan’s next strike. It does little to dampen his glee.

“It’s _just_ like those trashy novellas you like!”

“That _I_ like Quinlan Vos?!”

“A warm night. Quiet rooms. The lights of Coruscant in the distance. Wine-”

“Two people biologically incompatible in every possible way.”

Vos stumbles. The pair of knights passing glance at them in concern. Obi-Wan pauses a heartbeat, unreels that sudden surprise spike of bitterness and spools it off into the Force.

“Kenobi? You uh. You okay there?”

Obi-Wan breathes. “It’s nothing,” he determines. “Do continue.”

But Vos stands still, ‘saber lit but pointed to ground, face as concerned as Obi-Wan has ever seen it.

“You were describing the most unlikely humano-centric romantic encounter,” Obi-Wan prods. He brings his saber up to low ready. Vos doesn’t move.

“Do you need to have one of those nasty Bant-and-Reeft-things?”

“That’s just called a conversation Vos.”

“Those. The feely ones. I think you need one. I’ll call Reeft.”

Well, there goes Obi-Wan’s spar. He deactivates his saber with an annoyed huff. “Canto Bight,” he says before Vos can carry out his threat.

He winces almost immediately. A subtle glance at Vos shows the Kiffar’s concern has deepened and is verging on alarm. Canto Bight was in the top five instances of blackmail Obi-Wan had on Vos. To invoke it for this…

“I won’t call Reeft,” he promises slowly. His off hand drifts up palm out, as if Obi-Wan is a heavily armed hysterical. “But maybe _we_ should do that feely thing? I can try not to mock you out loud?”

“Don’t sprain anything,” Obi-Wan snips. He groans. He’s not deaf to the fact that Vos _hadn’t_ promised not to call in the Orbital Bombardment Option that is Bant in pursuit of healthy coping mechanisms. “Lets get drunk,” Obi-Wan decides.

“Gigglingly tipsy,” Quinlan corrects and holsters his saber. “I still have to babysit tonight.”

* * *

“So, physical too? Man, I would _not_ have called that.”

They don’t get drunk, or even tipsy. It ends up being a tea sort of conversation. Vos is kind enough to only pretend to gag every other sip. It’s why Obi-Wan sieves loose leaf for himself and dumps a teabag in Vos’ cup. He’s not even sure how old that is. Master Qui-Gon had saved them specifically for punishments or guests he wasn’t partial to.

The memory barely wounds anymore.

“That’s not it exactly. I didn’t wake up this morning suddenly enamored of Kel Dor. It’s just…”

“You associate Master Plo with safety, comfort and love and now the physiological responses are morphing to match the psychological ones.” Vos nods. Grimaces at the tea. “Ya, I follow. Totally tracks, man.”

Sometimes Obi-Wan forgets that Quinlan Vos also deliberately cultivates his meathead persona. That under the abrasive hyper-familiarity he’s actually quite -

“Don’t think it.”

Sweet.

“Kriffin’ hate you man.” Vos glares. “Couldn’t have gone for ‘intelligent’ or something?” He reaches threateningly for his gloves. A quick tug of Force and they fly to Obi-Wan instead. He taps fingers gently to the back of Vos’ hands, lets the warm curl of their friendship spin to the forefront of his mind.

Quinlan scoffs through a grin. “No one will believe you,” he claims and downs his tea. Obi-Wan laughs. Follows suit. The moment lasts _only_ a moment.

Obi-Wan drops his cup and he _l_ _unges_ with both hands and Force for his holopad. “ _No_ Vos you may not investigate my search history!”

“Ah yes Kenobi demonstrates the expected cries of a completely innocent man.”

They roll off the couch, hit the carpet with a solid thunk. Someone kicks the center table and the kettle on it rattles ominously.

Obi-Wan is pointier, but Quinlan is heavier and they end with the Kiffar set on the human’s back, flipping through Obi-Wan’s holopad with impunity.

Seconds tick by. Obi-Wan’s flush grows darker and hotter and he buries his burning face deep into the low pile and wishes the fronds were long enough to suffocate him.

“There is no porn here,” Quinlan declares with deep distress.

“Vos.”

“There is no smut. You. You searched ‘how to see his eyes’.”

“Vos _please_.”

“ _Will holding hands affect the vibrosensors in his talons?!_ ”

“It’s a valid concern!”

“I don’t know what I expected but I’m disappointed anyway.”

Obi-Wan whines his humiliation into the carpeting, but no friendly quirk of the Force puts him out of his misery.

Vos grunts. “Anatomy, _finally_ oh wait no this is about comfortable temperatures.” He drops the holopad perilously close to Obi-Wan’s nose. “You disgust me, friend.”

“There are _other_ anatomy searches there!” Obi-Wan protests. He isn’t sure why.

“Was it that six hundred page medical thesis?”

“No.”

Yes.

“Because I saw that one. And you disgust me.”

Obi-Wan is going to just die here, boil in his robes of humiliation. Master Plo will take Anakin.

Quinlan pats his head. “I knew you were pathetic from the moment I first met you, don’t worry. You’re not disgusting me any more than usual.”

“I hate you Vos.”

“Give it to the Force, Kenobi.”

“Hmph.”

Kiffar nails are annoyingly good at scalp scratches, and Obi-Wan finds himself reluctantly relaxing even with Quinlan still sitting heavy on his spine. “So what was it you found that made you all sour-brained for a second?”

Obi-Wan debates pretending he’s gone deaf. Gone to sleep, suddenly abandoned of all Basic. But Vos’ persistence is legendary, and he’s known for getting more annoying as he goes.

“We have minimal biological compatibility,” he acquiesces. “And the respiratory considerations are … not insignificant. And it turns out that the vast majority of humano-centric romantic norms require the ability to share food or drink. Or at least eat in the same room. Or within sight of each other.”

“Transpariplast partitions?”

“Would need to filter out the entirety of the human visible spectrum.”

“Even if he doesn’t take off the eye pieces?”

“Kel Dor orifices are vulnerable visible light as well as oxygen.”

“ _All_ orifices?” Obi-Wan doesn’t have to see Vos’ leer to know it’s there. He twists back awkwardly to thump ineffectually at any bit of him he can reach. He hits a bony knee. Not even on a nerve. “Okay so you’ll have to seduce him without dinners or tea, but I have faith in you.”

“Vos.”

“But _after_ dinner though, yeah? You’re gonna have to get real creative, I have ideas.”

“ _Vos_!”

Quinlan scoffs and thumps him in the back. “Stop being a coward Kenobi. You honestly couldn’t make yourself search ‘how to tup that hot Kel Dor’? But since you’re useless, Auntie Quin will remind you that _you’re a Jedi_. You want to get inappropriate with a gentleman caller and you can’t get _things_ in _places_ , Use The Force. Trust me, no one cares as long as they are either participating or don’t have to hear it. I have proven that up and down _every_ hallway-”

“ _Must_ you be so crass!”

“I’m digging your turmoil, really. Explains the pre-Ruusan style pining I’ve been having to suffer for half my life.”

Obi-Wan sputters. “Half your- Vos! I figured it out this _morning_!”

There’s a whistle, low and rolling and entirely too condescending. Not for the first time, Obi-Wan wonders how Quinlan Vos was able to to disguise his obnoxiousness long enough for them to become friends.“Okay. Up Kenobi, up. Roll over, move. This is a face-to-face moment.”

Despite his words Vos doesn’t move himself, and it’s left to Obi-Wan to squirm out from under him. He’s a blotchy, rumpled mess, he knows and for once Quinlan is the more put together of them. Obi-Wan glares.

“Obi. Kenobes. I’m going to dish up some truth nutrients right now. And you’re gonna eat em in hopes that you’ll grow big and strong and maybe be a real boy one day.”

“Have you ever considered going into theater? You’d be exceptionally terrible at it. The critical panning would do wonders for your ego.”

“ _Obi-Wan_.” Vos has this strange way of glaring and smirking at the same time, and being able to bring both expressions clearly across. “Obi-Wan Kenobi. You are not the only one who’s been gushing _feelies_ all over your apartment.”

Obi-Wan’s flush _ignites_.

* * *

Obi-Wan’s evening is no more productive than his early afternoon.

It takes a few minutes of struggle to eject Quinlan from his apartment, but that leaves him with just his thoughts and it’s arguably worse.

He putters. For hours. He fiddles with this or that. The plants are watered and aerated and pruned. Everything gets dusted again. Cushions get fluffed, then turned over to hide an unidentified spot.

For about eight minutes he’s able to settle himself with a book, but his mind wanders and soon enough his feet do too.

He’s gone twenty five years of life without thinking about what he’s supposed to be doing with his hands, but now he’s started and can’t stop. They just _hang there_. At his side. What does he do with them normally? He can’t remember.

Does Master Plo find him attractive?

Obi-Wan goes to see if maybe that kitchen stain will respond to bleach today.

It doesn’t.

The evening rolls on stretched and interminable, until a familiar, comfortable presence flows into the apartment above him and it feels like it’s been no time at all. He’s already smiling.

The touch of a mind uniquely Master Plo spans the distance between them with a fond query and Obi-Wan. Well. He likes that feeling, that quiet candlelight affection that flutters his way. He finds he likes it a lot. He reaches back an invitation.

He wastes only a few seconds quietly doubting himself, wondering if he’s been too forward. He’s been called flirtatious before, and rarely was it ever implied to be a virtue. But if Obi-Wan was to let his doubts control him, he’d never get anything done. He’s doubted nearly every step he’s taken in his life. He’s gotten used to the idea that he might never do otherwise. He moves forward regardless.

Obi-Wan is looking for it, possibly. Looking for _something_ , and examining deeper than the surface to find whatever’s there. Maybe that’s why he finally notices that quiet twist of hesitance under Master Plo’s regard when the man stands in his door. Notices that there’s a deliberate excising of expectation.

There’s still want though, and it isn’t particularly well disguised. Obi-Wan knows the feeling.

They watch each other for a lifetime of heartbeats. Master Plo’s creases deepen in wry humor and Obi-Wan grins with embarrassment.

“A fine pair we make, Master Plo,” he offers. The Kel Dor chuckles.

“Indeed. Perhaps this is to make us more understanding, when we speak to Padawans about talking through their situations.”

“And listening to the Force.”

Master Plo has a lovely smile. “And listening to the Force,” he agrees.

“I’ve started listening,” Obi-Wan says and he can’t help the way the words roll out sultry when he’d intended manner-of-factness. “If you’d like to come in for the talk.”

There’s something to be said for letting yourself be less contained. It’s easier to connect, easier to communicate. Easier to express the feelings that words don’t quite carry.

The sense of Plo Koon brushes softly against his, and Obi-Wan can feel the core of worry, of wondering if this might be something that twisted from gratitude to a thought of reciprocity. Obi-Wan lets Master Plo see his his own worry, that he is an obligation that’s grown into a project.

They, both of them, would like to get to know more about each other, perhaps without their assorted children between them. They both can’t stop the concern that there might be biological drives they may not be enough to fulfill, should things progress.

They see the truth of one another. They see a bloom of beautiful promise, lingering in a tight seed of possibility where their edges coincide.

And a cheeky little flash of less-than-idle curiosity curled up next to an interest in experimentation.

“I think I would be delighted,” Master Plo says, testing the words and finding them sweet.

Obi-Wan takes one of his hands in both of his own and draws him inside.


End file.
